


These Nights

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Famous Paul, Journalist John, M/M, McLennon, One Shot, Sexual Frustration, Showers, Smut, The Art of Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: Music journalist John Lennon is tasked with writing an article on newfound pop artist Paul McCartney. A night of fame, music, and passion soon surround John before he knows it. By the end of it all, he’s not so sure he can manage to give up this star and these nights.





	These Nights

**Author's Note:**

> [The post that inspired the shit.](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com/post/171851654021/while-the-beatles-were-on-tour-in-america-paul) Read this many moons ago and went through several swells of emotions before finding fic potential in it. so, _naturally_ , in my sordid mind i replaced peggy with john and decided to make a fic of it. I put my own spin on it in terms of detail so it would flow better and seem more au-ish. I apologize for the long and unannounced hiatus, and I hope this makes up for it a little bit. Happy reading! <333

A hotel lobby packed. The junket dotted with the sickly colors of men and women in their most professional attire. The air clogged with pressed suits, clacking heels, and the drone of journalism jargon. An editor’s wet dream.

And John’s boner crippler.

He clung to the wall, the most appealing candidate for small talk with its rose-embellished print. The _acclaimed_ journalists in the room had snagged the chairs and now spoke hurriedly amongst themselves. Had he been on time, John may have been one of them. But he hadn’t been and didn’t care to be. On the sidelines with notebook and pen in hand John represented his local newspaper the old-fashioned way.

Fuck the bootlicking routine and sugar-coated questions. This bloke was already the poster child of a diva, with his pouty lips and bitchy arch to his brows.

John hadn’t known whether to scowl or come when first met with the face on that self-titled album. _McCartney._ And the lad himself staring out from it, tempting John with sultry eyes to give him a listen.

And, begrudgingly, he had.

_It’s just for research,_ John had told himself as he placed the needle on track one.

_Just doing my job,_ he reminded himself three songs later.

_Fucking damn good record,_ he relented once the last number spun to a stop.

John pushed a hand through his curly quiff with a sigh and stood straighter against the wall.

No sooner had the hair fallen, than the bloke arrived.

A small parade of black-suited men ushered the musician in. He behaved as though a mere thread held together his sanity. Something in the way he shuffled amidst his bodyguard brigade and tossed his head in dizzying directions to acknowledge those bombarding him spoke of a weariness with the hectic publicity.

But, God, was he stunning in the chaos.

The pale blue of his collared shirt flourished against the surrounding sea of grey and black. A myriad of colors clashed spectacularly on him, and John couldn’t scan his eyes across them fast enough to keep up. A vibrant trail and a walking abstract.

John snapped a picture with his camera. 

And when Paul sat, the mask was lowered.

He slipped off the rose-tinted veil of his glasses—stripping more and more layers of himself until he deemed himself presentable to the public eye.

Microphones already lined the table. How eager they seemed to catch a clumsy slip of the tongue. A man standing at the side of the table informed they’d now begin the press conference.

McCartney lit himself a smoke disinterestedly.

When he looked up his eyes caught John’s. Lennon was an amateur reporter in the corner. He hadn’t the slightest idea how he was in natural line of sight. Nonetheless, he smiled, received a chubby-cheeked one in return.

He looked down at his notebook as his stomach looped. Daft.

And the questions commenced.

“Paul, how does it feel to be back in London after all of the touring in Germany?”

He knocked some ash from his cigarette. “Oh, it’s wonderful to be back, you know. Hamburg was nice, but it’s great to be home.”

“Are we to hear of any romances in the near future?” a shrill voice called, sickening to John’s ears.

Irrelevant. A question far from making the cut in his own article.

He absentmindedly doodled in the margins of his paper, a mere median amidst the clicks of cameras and barrage of questions. The vacuous questions sent his nerves straight through a grinder.

Paul lowered his head coyly before grabbing a glass of water.

“Due time, due time,” he answered around the lip.

A man from the third row raised his hand to ask, “What about this most recent news concerning your sexuality? Do you fear a loss in fanbase because of your being bisexual?”

_Christ, how narrow-minded can people be?_

John snickered. Not realizing he’d done so aloud, he glanced up, concerned.

He stood close enough to the conference table to catch the musician’s eyes on him, twinkling and amused at the subtle outburst.

McCartney, now donning a nearly imperceptible smirk, directed his attention back towards the reporter. He mechanically brushed his fingers along his sideboard and cleared his throat.

“Well…you know, it’s about the music, understand? So, if folks sort of… _run off,_ you know, because me preferences offend them, then they weren’t really in it for the music in the first place, were they? All I can do, really, is keep playin’ and be grateful for the ones who stay and the others that happen along.”

All was quiet for a moment, the shuffling of shoes or clicks of cameras the only sound in the room now impregnated with respect. John bit the inside of his cheek, inexcusably proud.

_How’s that suit yer article, you inconsiderate arse?_

John never much cared for the badgering questions hurled at artists concerning their sexuality or personal lives. If it enriched the music, he contended, let ‘em bugger whomever they please. In the long haul it was of no matter to him or the sea of articulate snakes around him.

Finding now to be the most appropriate time to delicately voice his thoughts, John spoke up with his first question of the evening.

“Seeing as your sales have shown absolutely _no_ correlation between your sexuality and the rank of your album on the charts,” McCartney’s eyes wasted no time seeking out his own, and John steeled the dip in his stomach as he continued smoothly, “I think a more fitting subject would be your songwriting. So, _Mr. McCartney_ , where’s all that emotion come from?” 

John thought maybe that was when it happened. When Paul singled him out, picked him for the taking even though John hadn’t the slightest he was up for bidding.

For, suave as you please, Paul crossed his arms over the table and leaned forward. A leisure pull on his fag. When the smoke billowed from his lips hypnotically, John’s brain cells followed it, fleeing his head in ash-like flurries.

“Now _there’s_ a question,” the musician nearly purred.

* * *

The night snowballed after that, each happening ensconced by a greater one.

John had been wallowing in a cynical sulk (the doom of returning to his cookie-cutter life shadowing over him) at the hotel minibar when none other than Brian Epstein, the young star’s manager, approached him. In hurried yet eloquent speech, he offered an invitation to the concert and brandished a ticket and backstage pass as though he were the Willy Wonka of the music industry.

John lifted a brow and lowered his tumbler of whiskey from his mouth. Carefully, he took the offered incentives and read over them. Legitimate.

Flabbergasted, John mindlessly voiced the one concern he had.

“Only one ticket?”

Mr. Epstein averted his eyes, looked to the bar’s countertop. Words found somewhere amidst the water rings and scuffed varnish, he ambiguously replied, “He ask that you come alone.”

Before John could drill further, the man hurried off, his presence requested by another rep from Paul’s team.

But, for the life of him, John couldn’t hide the smile on his lips. Not even when he tossed back the whiskey to singe it with the hissing burn.

* * *

Bodies crammed the lounge, dark and thrumming with bass-driven mixes. Most of them flooded the dance floor in a sea of grinding hips and groping hands. Others piled onto maroon colored sofas as smoke mingled in the air around them like shapeless birds.

John, in all of his amateur journalist glory, never imagined himself to be one of those stuffed onto the lounge, pressed close and comfortable to the side of his article’s subject.

Lennon took a pull on his ciggie as he listened to Paul chat with Ringo, a drummer who occasionally joined him on stage. Lazily, John watched as several rings scintillated on his hands in the dull lighting as he spoke. The ambience of this scene was so easy and soothing John couldn’t picture himself spending this Saturday night, and all future ones, any other way.

Ringo excused himself in favor of another round of drinks. The cushion dipped and Paul turned himself more fully towards John, tossed an arm along the back of the lounge and hastened the beat of John’s heart.

“So, what’d you think?” He cocked his eyebrow and John fought to summon words.

“Oh, I think drummer boy’s a swell lad,” John said, nodding. “Bit sloppy with that backwards drumming, though.”

Wit. Good.

“Arse,” he cuffed the back of John’s head, the touch lingering for a moment. “I meant the show. Already knew I need a new drummer,” he added in good fun.

They shared a smile. The lily-white flash of his teeth transported John back to the stage, where he, journalist turned cheerleader, stood on the outskirts and watched the performance with glittering eyes. The young man stunned the crowd by blurring the line between love and pain. Only the eclectic emotion of music remained.

And John snagged the opportunity to snap a few photos. Raw, unadulterated beauty seated beneath the spotlight.

It was a performance unlike any other John had seen… _felt._

Now, with the top buttons of Paul’s pale blue shirt undone and sweat-damp fringe swept along his forehead, John couldn’t find a critical bone in his body.

“It was perfect.”

“Perfect…,” Paul mimicked, trying the word out for size in his own mouth. Perhaps it tasted foreign, but John couldn’t imagine why.

Then he was staring—staring at John as if he were something new and awe-inspiring. And God, but the _stars_ in his eyes, those hazel havens for a brightness unknown to man.

He spoke, but John hadn’t a clue what he said. Too taken was he by the fluid movement of Paul’s full lips, pressing and parting like waves. When those lips stilled and those eyebrows beckoned response, John faltered.

“Umm…what?”

Jesus Christ, if ever there were a best _and_ worst time to be a bisexual man, it was now—John Lennon being the hapless victim of such an occurrence.

“Concert was that loud, eh?” Paul laughed, ever patient. “Said I liked the questions you asked at the press conference. They were much more insightful than those other sods’.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” John looked down, fighting off a coy, _absurd_ smile, “I just wanna get down to what’s important.”

“Not interested in the brand of soap I buy, then? Type of knickers I wear?” He smiled, shuffled closer, stirred John’s blood with the nearness of him.

John looked up at that, warmed by the fire in his own eyes. The sloshy weight of liquid courage in his belly fueled him, now a libido-driven engine.

With a smirk, he said, “If I am, I can assure you it isn’t for informing the public.”

Paul looked caught on a ledge of amusement and shock…a ledge on which John wanted to keep him stranded. “What a naughty reporter,” he settled on, shaking his head with a grin.

John winked.

The musician bit his lip, his face hardly disguising his skittering thoughts. A hand, spilling secrets all of its own, landed high on John’s thigh. The touch felt heavy and comfortable, and, fuck, if John couldn’t help but spread his legs in the slightest of invitations.

“Let me get you a drink, Johnny,” the words met his ears like a heated breath, and his head was nodding before it had the decency to consult his brain first.

After a rousing squeeze to his leg, Paul was up and circling the back of the lounge in the dim club.

As he rounded behind John, however, he leaned in and the intoxicating scent of him greeted John long before his words did. Mouth dizzyingly close to his right ear, Paul whispered, “Calvin Kleins. Briefs. Mum’s the word, babe,” and disappeared into the swarm of people.

When McCartney was out of sight, John hung his head along the back of the sette. He tried that weird ‘levelling your breathing’ shit George had been shoving down his throat. Scream therapy—Sexual Frustration Edition—would be far more up his alley though if he weren’t packed in a nightclub like a sardine in a can.

He was most likely on his way to fucking one of the hottest rising stars in London, and his composure was already ripping at the seams because of a few flirty exchanges. If John blew this for himself, he’d have no choice but to deny himself the pleasure of any future blowings.

After scrubbing a hand over his face and mentally pep-talking his dick, John’s confidence solidified remarkably. Such was the magic of Lennon, to piece apart in private then scramble for the shards before they glistened in the light of public.

Paul, happy-go-lucky, returned with that scintillating light of his own, natural and too special to be contagious to someone shrouded like Lennon. Funny enough, that was _all_ the lad returned with.

John smiled up at him with drawn brows as McCartney stood before him empty-handed. “Daft lad, forgot the drinks.”

“I knew me hands felt lighter.” John’s stomach dropped at the soft look on his face, the dominance he poised while standing.

Jokingly he asked, “Really that helpless without an assistant?”

Paul just smiled and looked behind John, scanned the crowd meticulously. Finally, his eyes met John again, something John couldn’t quite define hidden in their irises.

“You wanna get out of here? Go somewhere more private, less grotty?” he ventured unexpectedly.

John swallowed the lump suddenly seizing his throat, the frantic pound of his heart no doubt shoving it there. Features suddenly serious, he merely nodded at the suggestion—found it was all he could manage.

Paul grinned at that, mischief tucked away in the curve of his lip. He boldly offered a hand to John, who took it without thought. And away McCartney guided them through the bustling bodies, out of the door and into his ride.

The possessive grasp on his hand told John he was literally and figuratively fucked.

* * *

“Home sweet hotel suite,” Paul introduced with an elaborate sweep of his arms.

He stood ethereally against the backdrop of his grandeur top-floor room. The living area housed a grand piano in the corner, upraised by a circular dais. A chaise and two velvet settees faced the fireplace. Records and a leather messenger bag were strewn across one of them. From the doorway, the master bedroom was in line of sight, door open and sheets of scarlet spilling atop the mattress like fine wine.

John felt too grotty to even stand by the door.

Heedless of his discomfort, Paul headed straight for the record player and spun a sultry track. Otis Redding. He crackled to life and adorned the room with a palpable yearning. John’s stomach dropped as he watched Paul get comfortable, slipping off his coat and tossing it on the sette.

Upon turning around, he flashed John, still unmoving, a soothing smile.

“Floor’s not lava, mate,” he joked, coming closer. “Get comfortable.” Wordlessly and oh-so suave, he eased off the camera hung around John’s neck. The journalist couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man, thrown by the tenderness of his touch.

He stared and stared; Paul all the while focused on the screen of the camera and the photos coming to life beneath his eyes. There was something in the way Paul’s lashes bowed along his cheeks, long, black arrows pointing to a mouth John ached to—

“Get any good shots?”

Lennon blinked, abrasively bucked from the fantasy he wanted to live before the reality. He cleared his throat.

“‘M not a professional, so they’re a bit shabby,” John warned with a shrug, fractionally self-conscious.

“Come off it! Can’t be if _I’m_ in ‘em.” He winked and left John at the doorway again, heading towards the living area instead.

John grinned at him and knocked his shoes off by the door. “Ooh, feel safe when a mic isn’t shoved in your face, do you?”

“Certainly makes it a lot easier to breathe,” he called back as he leaned against the arm of one of the settees and flicked through John’s pictures.

John laughed. His eyes wandered as Paul silently preoccupied himself and eventually landed on the all too tempting piano in the corner. Silently, he approached it.

He slid his fingers along the ivories, tenderly tapping a few just to hear their sweet cry. So in tune was she to herself and John to her. Part of him was reasonably intimidated to attempt anything in the presence of an established musician. But it wasn’t a hesitance large enough to dissuade him.

He sat on the polished, ebony bench. By no accident, his fingers sought out the beginning chords of _Yesterday,_ McCartney’s first to snag number one. Music breathed to life beneath the calloused tips of his fingers, and he barely realized a second presence until it joined him on the keys.

Paul stood behind him, the friendliest of shadows. His chest pressed snuggly against John’s back, and John hadn’t felt so at ease in a long time. Their hands moved together in graceful amalgamation. A process so natural John wondered how it’d only just begun.

Then Paul was singing. A voice that, intimately close, scattered shivers down John’s back. The hauntingly beautiful lyrics poured above his hair, spilling over him in a soothing rainfall.

By the second verse their hands stilled, as if through mutual, unspoken agreement. John sat helpless—watching through a third eye—as Paul’s left hand covered his own.

“You do your research,” Paul said fondly…quietly.

John smiled while his eyes remained locked on their hands. “That’s a really good one. My favorite, actually.” Smile in tow, he spun around on the bench and looked up at the other man.

They were suddenly so close, Paul having yet to step back from his hovering over John. Far from doing so, he leaned closer yet and rested both hands atop the piano keys. The resulting dissonance of sound brought a grin to John’s face.

Heated and hooded, Paul’s eyes pinned him in place. Deliciously trapped. John felt a second rush from the alcohol on his breath and a perverse excitement at the excessive pound of his heart.

“Tell me if you know this one,” Paul purred with tempting lips. Then he slipped into a sensual rendition of yet another single, “ _Close your eyes, and I’ll kiss you….”_

John did as much and breathed a small laugh. “Yeah, rings a bell,” he whispered, voice honey thick.

And in the most pleasing of responses, Paul tipped John’s chin up with delicate fingers and kissed him. The pillowy cushion of his lips had John smiling before he could stop himself. So gentle was Paul with him—his hand shifting up to John’s cheek and stroking it with his thumb.

His smile soon faded, though, as Paul pressed firmer into it and raised his hand to cup the older man’s jaw. Unbidden, out slipped a moan from the minute gap between their lips. John felt himself slipping similarly. With every naughty tug on his lip, asphyxiation seemed a lost breath away.

Paul, clearly running the operation, had John on his feet with a tight grip on his checkered flannel. He pushed him into the piano, and John’s bum conjured yet another discordant mess on the keys.

They laughed into each other’s mouth at the rush of it all. Their foreheads bumped and noses knocked in a tangle so uncoordinated it was beautiful. John gave little thought to his hands as they moved to hold Paul’s narrow hips. He pulled him closer until their front halves were flush together; his reward was a moan that’d haunt his wet dreams for a lifetime.

Paul’s mouth trailed, slow as a sunset, towards the heated skin of John’s neck, scorching him just the same. He sucked at a spot until it was raw and pulsing between his teeth, then trailed the hand rested at John’s neck lower. The teasing brush down his chest left John panting. And when Paul cupped him through his jeans, John tossed a hand into that raven hair with a gasp.

“Fuck, I could tell you had talented hands,” he managed, voice heavy.

“Yeah,” Paul murmured, head now rested in the crook of John’s neck as his hand stroked his bulge as much as John’s jeans allowed.

Apparently growing too impatient, Paul turned to fighting his belt buckle at a frantic pace. Smiling at his feat, John pushed away the lad’s hands and instead cupped his face for a kiss.

“Take it easy, love. Don’t croak before ye cum,” he soothed when they parted.

Paul smiled and leaned back in for a chaste peck. “What d’you wanna do, then?”

“Maybe cool off? I go take a quick shower, and we see what comes of it from there?” John suggested, moving his own kisses along the other man’s jaw in a _truly_ _pathetic_ attempt to coax him.

It worked.

Though hesitant, the musician consented, “Um…yeah, okay. Loo’s through the bedroom there.”

After a final tangle of tongues and burning gaze, John excused himself for the bathroom.

_Thank Christ._

With a mere cough John knew he could be set off like a cherry bomb, and he wasn’t prepared to handle such an extent of humiliation. Cold water on his flaming skin was a good decision. Because the last thing he wanted was to come in his trousers like a schoolboy from a little friendly groping.

Not wanting to keep Paul throbbing for longer than necessary, John shed his clothes and hopped into the shower. Within a few minutes, his hard-on died amidst the water’s frigid cruelty. His worries dripped from him in thick rivulets, and by the time he stepped out he felt like a new man.

He scrubbed the towel over his face and hair and wrapped it around his waist. Like an apparition, keen on all John did and thought, Paul appeared in the doorway. His collared shirt from earlier was now completely unbuttoned and hanging from his shoulders, loose at the sides of his thin waist. Similarly, he’d stripped himself of everything below, save for those sinful briefs of which he’d spoken to John.

What a breathtaking sight.

“Feel better?” he asked, arms crossed and body leaned against the jamb.

John turned his head towards him with a smile, “Loads.”

Pushing away from the doorway, Paul came further into the room. “You _look_ better.”

“What was I, a minger before?” John joked, following his reflection in the mirror.

He smiled. “Hardly.”

As though in slow motion, a dreamlike haze, John watched him place his hands on his naked, dripping stomach. He kissed the crest of John’s shoulders before trailing lower, pressing his lips to shoulder blades and freckled skin. His tongue flitted along the curve of his spine until John thought he’d split at that very place.

A sigh escaped his parted lips, and he closed his eyes. Paul’s tongue lapped at the water still clinging to him like a second skin. The deft slide of his mouth against his back set John aflame. A strap of white heat pierced through his blood as he realized his shower was truly a waste.

As Paul nipped at the junction of neck and shoulder, John turned his head, cupped Paul’s jaw, and kissed him. The younger lad hummed into his mouth and ran his nails lower along John’s abdomen, erotic little scratches, until they reached the cotton brim of the towel.

With a lithe flick of the wrist, the towel pooled to the floor like a fresh blanket of snow.

John’s breath caught in his throat, and he broke their kiss. His heavy eyes looked down at himself, his cock half-hard, and Paul’s hands a touch away from helping him along. The sight made John moan, a sound so faint and verging on a whimper.  He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against Paul’s shoulder.

“Please,” he breathed, needy, into the lad’s ear. Reiterating his words, he placed a large hand over Paul’s and urged it towards his heat.

More than mindful of the hint, lower slid his hand, until it had taken hold of John. Lazily Paul stroked him, slender fingers nearly pulling from John the sounds he’d conjured from the piano.

Tasting that bit of impatience Paul had earlier, John turned in his arms, gripped the loose openings of Paul’s shirt, and walked them towards the bedroom, lips never breaking.

The back of John’s knees hit the mattress, and they dropped to the bed in a giggling tangle. God, the thought of those linens wrinkled and clawed at shoved a fist-sized lump into John’s throat. The sheets caressed his skin with a crisp coolness; Paul radiated warmth above him—a blessed dichotomy.

He shoved a hand into Paul’s hair as the lad kissed down his chest and took a nipple into his mouth. John bit his lip, tried to grind up against Paul without making his neediness known. His breathing came in short sighs the lower Paul moved on his blazing path of pleasure.

The grip on Paul’s hair tightened as he neared his erection, but loosened in a brief flash of disappointment as the lad completely bypassed it in favor of biting at his thighs. It was the tease of the century considering the Adonis splayed on top of him.

“Love, please,” John said, a hand now thrusted into his own damp hair.

He lifted his eyes to John, wearing a smug smirk around the skin in his mouth. He licked a small path to the junction of his hip before straddling him.

John caressed his thighs, eyes sparkling as he snuck his fingers into the hem of Paul’s underwear and began tugging. There was the subtlest sense of dominance with every article Paul still wore. And the lad could have as much control as he wanted, so long as John got to feel every bare inch of him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of ye, Johnny.” He lowered his head to press a soft kiss to John’s stomach, then leapt from the bed. He padded to his luggage in the corner. After hasty rummaging, he returned with a bottle of lube and a condom.

Before he climbed back on the bed, he stripped himself of his briefs. His hips wriggled minimally with the effort, an effect John fancied his own little show. The collared shirt slipped from his shoulder as if by command. Finally, McCartney was bare and beautiful before him. John immediately knew he’d found the perfect inspiration to write a killer article on the musician.

Paul climbed back in bed and straddled John once more. He poured a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, their glistening thereafter causing John to squirm unintentionally, _expectantly_ against the sheets. Streaks of red dusting his cheeks, Paul placed his fingers at John’s entrance. Chilled fingertips prepared him with a sense of experience for which John was grateful. It meant he could relax—carry on biting his lip with a furrowed brow, breathing pleasured notes when it became unfair to the both of them to censor them.

When mutual agreement concluded John was ready, Paul took John’s hand and poured more of the liquid into it for extra precaution. Smirking, John set to work. The pulse of Paul met the pulse of his own veins. The younger lad’s mouth hung agape in unvoiced pleasure, the Cupid’s bow of his lips only lacking the arrow with which to pierce John.

Lennon watched, fascinated, at the man’s pleasure, and soon ceased his stroking so they could share the experience.

“Could’ve used my mouth,” John said in reference to his preparing Paul.

“Would’ve come right into it, love,” Paul replied immediately. He cleaned his slick fingers against the sheet.

Inexplicably, John laughed at that, at this sheer sense of normalcy he felt in bed with Paul.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

They stopped and stared at one another, caught in a final bout of stilled mesmerization before the impending rapture of lust.

“Well…I wanna come in _other_ places.”

When he pushed in John was caught between breaking apart and coming together.

He grabbed for Paul’s back, shoulder blades, any place he could hold to ground himself in the moment. Paul set the pace slow and measured. He touched John’s cheek and led him into a kiss. Lennon had never felt more welcome in a near stranger’s bed.

The burning was intense, but little by little eased into a smoother slide. And with a determined thrust, Paul had John tossing his head back with a gripping moan.

“Just…there— _fuck!”_

“That good, love?” he murmured, a smirk on his lips and a swivel in his hips.

John frowned. The inclined angle painted him with fresh layers of pleasure at every thrust. “Mmm, perfect.”

They met for a kiss. The passionate connection below rendered mouths sloppy and rubbing hotly. John never knew getting fucked on a posh hotel bed could feel so much like gliding across the universe.

“Shit,” Paul dropped by his collarbone, pleasure disguised as a curse John welcomed against his skin. “Almost…,” he trailed off, seemingly lost in the rhythm of John’s body moving with his own.

“Paul, fuck, babe.” His hands slid lower and cupped Paul’s bum, starved to have him all the more close. With an answering desperation, Paul hitched John’s thighs higher around his waist.

His forehead and the sweaty sweeps of hair covering it burrowed into John’s neck. John turned thoughtlessly into the touch. His legs tightened around Paul’s slim frame, and the repeated strokes inside him left him gripping at raven-black hair. His mouth fell slack against the lad’s glistening temple.

John centered all thoughts on the bliss inside of him, the man on top of him, and how natural it all felt. Soon thereafter streams of consciousness evanesced into white noise, and he came with a guttural moan. The tight clench of muscles undoubtedly spurred Paul on, for he followed in near unison.

“John, _John,”_ he chanted, and John never wanted to hear his name spoken another way again. Paul filled him and filled him as he lay blissfully buzzing against the mattress.

Like silence after a gunshot, everything stilled. One by one, senses drifted back into existence, realization fitting around them like a warm glove.

Paul pulled out with a final, feeble moan, and his head dropped to John’s chest as though his bones suddenly had turned to gelatin. Lamely, he brushed open-mouth kisses along whatever part of skin his lips could reach.

John ran fingers through his hair as his mind swam from the depths of pleasure and back towards the shallows of reality. But reality was calm, sandy soft, and he had the chance to bask in everything the moment had to offer. Golden waters of fame tickled his toes. Or maybe that was just Paul’s legs entwined with his own.

Paul suddenly rolled off of him after a firm kiss to his shoulder. John watched him, eyes glazed with a certain magic.

Staring at the high ceiling, voice beaten, Paul said, “Put _that_ in your article.”

After a childlike giggle, John jokingly reached for a pencil and small notebook that lay on the nightstand. Mid-lean, Paul laughed and pulled him back around, into his arms.

“Wait, wait,” John laughed, struggling to be free for the moment, “lemme get a ciggy, git.”

Paul released him with a huff, smiling. He leered after John, his pale, bare back, as though he were someone worth touching—someone worth _having._

Lennon ignored the thought. Daft, daft, daft.

“You always gotta smoke after sex.” John lit his ciggy and took a drag. He fell back in place beside Paul.

“Why’s that?” Paul asked fondly, propped up on an elbow with a hand threaded in John’s hair.

John held the smoke out for him, and Paul wrapped his lips around it. “It completes the trinity: lust in your groin, smoke in your lungs, and love in your heart.”

John swallowed an unforgiving lump on the last notion. Had it been forgiving in the slightest, it would have closed his throat entirely—kept him from spilling anymore mawkish sentimentality that’d get him thrown from a gorgeous celebrity’s bed.

Hastily, he shoved the smoke back between his lips.

But Paul was just staring. A hand still in John’s hair, fingers minutely combing, and the smallest of smiles pressed onto his lips. No cringing. No recoiling.

Finally, he said, “Keep sayin’ shit like that and I just might have to keep you around,” and gave him a kiss.

Christ, John was ready to jump his bones again. The hickey on his neck and the ache in his thighs, all footprints of Paul’s passion, only fueled the want like rum on a fire. If Paul thought John was someone worth keeping around, well….

“A lad could certainly get used to you and these nights.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I swear to god it'll stay a one shot this time! Leave some love if you want to; I love to read it. Next orders of business will be Stealing Hearts and The Pusher. Thank you for any and all support!!!


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